A Chance Meeting
by Afalstein
Summary: Alternate Title: When Thorin Met Gandalf. "He never forgave. And he never forgot. But the armies were dispersed and the alliances broken and the axes of his people were few; and a great anger without hope burned him as he smote the red iron on the anvil. But at last there came about by chance a meeting that changed all the fortunes of the House of Durin."


**A Chance Meeting**

But he never forgave. And he never forgot. When Thrain was lost he was ninety-five, a dwarf of proud bearing; but he seemed content to remain in Eriador. There he laboured long, and trafficked, and gained such wealth as he could and his people were increased by many of the wandering Folk of Durin who heard of his dwelling in the west and came to him. Now they had fair halls in the moutains, and store of goods, and their days did not seem so hard, though in their songs they spoke ever of the Lonely Mountain far away.

The years lengthened. The embers in the heart of Thorin grew hot again, as he brooded on the wrongs of his House and the vengeance upon the Dragon that he had inherited. He thought of weapons and armies and alliances, as his great hammer rang in his forge; but the armies were dispersed and the alliances broken and the axes of his people were few; and a great anger without hope burned him as he smote the red iron on the anvil.

But at last there came about by chance a meeting that changed all the fortunes of the House of Durin, and led to other and greater ends beside.

* * *

Thorin pushed his way up to the bar, elbowing the bigger, stupider men aside. "Butterbur." He called, flipping a coin at the fat man. "A pint of your finest, and a hot meal."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Oakenshield." Butterbur beamed down at him. "Will you be wanting a room for the night? Got some of my nice low rooms close to the ground available, always proud to cater..."

"Thank you, yes." Thorin gave a curt nod, accepting the tankard from the man and moving off. The tankard was plain pewter, unadorned and slightly sticky with the beer of its last customer. Thorin took a sip of the ale as he scanned the room for a good place to sit. It was good ale, he supposed, certainly better than he was likely to find further eastward or even possibly in the Blue Mountains.

For a moment Thorin had a vision of a cunningly crafted mug of gold, with glinting gems set in it to catch the light, filled to the brim with sparkling wine.

But he shook the thoughts away. That time was long past. All the spots by the fireplace were taken, and most of the nearer ones had at least one person sitting at them. The only free booths were far away from the fire, near the north wall, where the cold wind blew against the house. Thorin shrugged and made his way toward one, stopping to brush the dirt off the bench and table before settling on the rough wood. A mouse scurried away from his foot and he frowned with annoyance.

The booth was colder than Thorin had expected, but he was used to such things. He pulled his cloak about his shoulders and glowered in the general direction of the kitchen. Butterbur was a hospitable innkeeper—there was a reason Thorin always stopped at the Prancing Pony on his journeys eastward and back—but still it nettled Thorin to be treated as merely another patron of the inn, or at best a slightly more important patron.

He shook his head and sighed. Why did this bother him now? For the past twenty years he had been treated as an ordinary patron, and for twenty years before that he had not even had enough gold to be treated as anything. He was lord of the Blue Mountains, true, but that—he thought to himself bitterly—was nothing especially worthy of note.

A plate clanked on the table before him and he nodded at the attendant. "Thank you, Nob." The hobbit ducked his head in acknowledgement and disappeared. Thorin ate, his eyes scanning the room. A dirty, noisy lot, half of them drunk, though Thorin supposed they were not much behind dwarves in that regard. Unskilled, unwarlike. They were not even like the noble, hardworking men of Dale—or at least not the ones that Thorin could recall meeting. But then, he had been a prince. Most likely he had seen only the noblest men of Dale, and perchance even those had grown greater in his remembrance with the rose-tinted glasses of memory.

Thorin wondered how much of his youth had been rendered more magnificent by time. Had the Arkenstone really been so bright? Had Erebor's halls really been so grand? Had the wine truly been so red? Had Tharkun really been so powerful?

Tharkun. There he was again. For whatever reason, he had been thinking about the wizard a great deal lately. It was all the more irksome because what memories he DID have of the wizard were associated with Erebor. Oh, to be sure, he had since heard of Tharkun often—Gandalf, they called him here in the North—but he had only ever seen the wizard once, in Erebor.

Thorin had been rather young at the time—scarcely more than twenty—and he had come to the throne room out of an idle desire to speak with his father. He had been surprised to find the throne room closed against all visitors (save for him), and more surprised yet to find the throne room already occupied.

An old man with a long grey beard and tall pointed blue hat was standing before the throne, his knotted staff loose in his left hand, his right hand gesticulating violently. "I understand, great King. I merely advise you that you are playing with a dangerous toy. It is less corrupt than the others, perhaps, yet the Enemy had a hand in its making. If used, it will unquestionably consume you, leading to ruin and..."

"The Enemy is vanquished, and has been so even since our father's time." Thror, King Under the Mountain, answered. Thorin, who was intimately familiar with all his regal grandfather's moods, could see that the great king was annoyed and even angered. "This trinket of which you speak, wherever it is, has surely been rendered harmless, and did we possess it, would be ours to do with as we saw fit."

Thorin saw his father, sitting on the right of the throne, send his grandfather a worried glance. If the king noticed the look, he paid it no attention. "Wise as you are, Tharkun, we do not appreciate your meddling in this matter. Begone, we pray you, from our presence."

"I shall leave, O king." The old man bowed, stepping back. "Nonetheless I shall leave you with this one last word of counsel, and if you have ever heeded Tharkun, do so now. Do not use it, I pray you. Let the dwarves' wealth be gained through the skill of their hands and the riches of their mountains, not by the workings of dark sorcery."

His grandfather made an impatient gesture, and the old man silently walked away. Perhaps Thorin imagined it, but he thought the wizard glanced at him as he left.

Whether he did or not, it mattered little. From that moment on, Tharkun Firewalker had less welcome in the halls of Erebor than he had hitherto, and though his father would often urge for his counsel to be sought, his grandfather would always respond that Tharkun was a hard man to find, and gave aid only to those who HE sought out, not to those who sought out him.

Sometimes Thorin wondered if seeking Tharkun out might have saved Erebor. In all likelihood not, for though perhaps his grandfather's objections had been motivated by malice, they had also been rather accurate. Tharkun had been on Thorin's mind so much recently, he had seriously considered looking up the wizard, just to get him off his mind. But he'd had to discard the notion. Gandalf was not called "The Wandering Wizard" for nothing. He had no home, no mailing address, no confederate to send messages to. Searching for him would take far more effort than an idle notion warranted.

And then as if called by Thorin's very thought, Gandalf walked in the door.

Thorin blinked. He glanced at the mug in his hand, glanced back at the door, closed his eyes and opened them again. There he was again, a tall man clad in grey with a bushy white beard and eyebrows that stuck out from under the rim of his blue hat. A silver scarf was wound round his neck and he had a staff clutched in one hand. His face had a few more lines, and there was more dirt on his robe, but otherwise the man could have walked straight out of the throne room of Thorin's childhood.

The whole thing was impossibly—absurdly—ludicrous, and for a few moments Thorin simply turned his back to the newcomer. This was just too bizarre. That Tharkun should show up after over a hundred years, just on the moment when Thorin was thinking about him? What was he supposed to say anyway?

On the other hand, what was he supposed to not do? Just sit here, drinking this horrid ale while the man who'd been haunting his thoughts for the past months just walked out the door and back into oblivion?

With a sudden surge of frustration, Thorin jumped up from his seat and pushed his way over to the bar. Gandalf was sitting in one of the far booths, fiddling with a long, thin, intricately carved pipe. His gleaming eyes were staring off into the distance, doubtless contemplating some deep wizardly manner.

Thorin gave a light cough to attract the wizard's attention. "Master Gandalf," He said, bowing slightly. "I know you only by sight, but now I should be glad to speak with you. For you have often come into my thoughts of late, as if I were bidden to seek you." He shrugged. "Indeed I should have done so, if I had known where to find you."

The wizard looked at him, a strange light in his eyes. "That is strange, Thorin Oakenshield." He agreed. Thorin felt some mild surprise (and no small pleasure) at the fact the wizard knew his name. "For I have thought of you also; and though I am on my way to the Shire, it was in my mind that is the way also to your halls."

Thorin snorted. "Call them so, if you will. They are only poor lodgings in exile." Taking a seat next to the wizard, he signaled Butterbur. "But you would be welcome there, if you would come." He added. "For they say that you are wise and know more than any other of what goes on in the world, and I have much on my mind and would be glad of your counsel."

"I will come," nodded the wizard, "for I guess that we share one trouble at least. The Dragon of Erebor is on my mind."

Thorin's head whipped around to look at him.

Gandalf nodded significantly. "And I do not think he will be forgotten by the grandson of Thror."

* * *

"No, it is impossible." Thorin shook his head. "The old alliances are dead. None of the other kingdoms would send their dwarves merely to enhance the fortunes of the house of Durin. And my own people are scattered," he continued, repeating the arguments he had considered time and time again, "finding whatever living they can, wherever they can. It would take far too much time and effort to gather them all again, and what we could gather would not stand against the dragon."

"How could they, when the collected might of the Dwarves of Erebor at the height of their power could not stand against him?" Gandalf raised his bushy eyebrows. "No, Lord Oakenshield, if I told you to trust to armies and alliances, THAT would be impossible. But I bid you trust in speed and stealth, and armies are not suited to either."

"What could speed and stealth achieve against a dragon?" snorted Thorin. "Even a very small party—thirty dwarves, for instance—would be enough to awaken the dragon, long before we could slay him." But in his mind, he was thinking_: But no one has even seen the dragon for generations._

"That would certainly be no good without a great warrior—even a Hero." Gandalf nodded pensively. "And most of those are off in foreign lands, and would not aid us without a hefty fee." An idea seemed to strike him. "But tell me, Lord Oakenshield, what if there were no need to kill the dragon?"

Thorin looked at the wizard in confusion.

"Suppose: a small, devoted party, one that could travel to the Mountain unnoticed. More importantly, one that could ENTER the Mountain without awakening the dragon to recover your grandfather's treasure."

Thorin's nose wrinkled in distaste. "A party of thieves, you mean."

"It cannot be thievery to reclaim your birthright, a treasure that was taken from you." Gandalf pointed out.

"But... it is a cheat. The path of a sneak, and of a coward." Thorin protested. "Like one who does not dare to face the dragon."

Gandalf snorted. "By my beard, I hope you do NOT dare." He answered. "Such daring would be reckless and foolhardy, and accomplish little more than an extra pile of ash to ornament the steps of Erebor."

Thorin sat back, studying the wizard. Burglary... it did not sit well with him. And while there was truth in the wizard's words, still it fell far short of what lay in Thorin's heart. It was not the gold of the Mountain that Thorin desired, but the halls themselves. It was a home his people needed, not a hoard. Could a burglar give them a new kingdom?

And then, suddenly, Thorin saw the cunning in the wizard's plan. Perhaps a burglar could not, but a burglar could give them the MEANS to retake a kingdom. Even a hundredth of the wealth that lay in his fathers' halls would be more than sufficient to hire an army OR a hero. And, of course, should the dragon be dead already...

Thorin glanced away. "I will think on it." He grunted.

* * *

**A/N:** So, a bit of this, especially at the beginning, is more or less lifted from Tolkien's appendices. Thorin's meeting with Gandalf is a scene I really wanted to see in the movie, and I was rather disappointed when it skipped it. Maybe it'll show up in the later installments, but for the moment I felt it was a gap in the story that needed to be filled.

Actually this chapter is part of a larger plan I have that details how Thorin assembled his company (Fili, Kili, Balin, etc.). But I don't have very much of that, and I don't want to start another multi-chapter fic, so I probably won't post the rest of it on here. Feel free to review this one, though!


End file.
